


Anticipation

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Electricity, Electricity Play, Light Bondage, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut, shock collar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28405491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: He’s got a brilliant idea and he wants to test it. On himself, first, because it’s him.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Anticipation

August has something on his mind and it’s eating at him. It’s got his lip twitching under his moustache, his expression focused like when he’s got someone on the table and they’re just _waiting_ to see how he’s gonna take them apart. It’s got you on edge and your panties wet without quite knowing why; he controls his face so carefully that his predatory aspect is almost perfectly hidden til he wants you to see it. And yet. 

_And yet you know me so well, pet. When you learned to read me, did it make you more afraid of me, or less?_

_Afraid of you? Hardly. Afraid **for** you? Maybe so. _

And when he says _pet, I have a job for you,_ you’re thinking something like a dead drop, a supply run, maybe warming his cock while he works (please let it be that one), but no. He holds out a box with a shock collar and thick leather cuffs and

_August? What—_

He’s got a brilliant idea and he wants to test it. On himself, first, because it’s him, and _now, pet. Have to make sure you can handle this._

_Sure, August, whatever you say,_ but that tent in his pants says maybe he’s got some selfish reasons too. And so you cuff him to the headboard, arms up and elbows bent so his hands rest beside his head; he lounges insolently, all thick coiled muscle that can _probably_ be held in check by those cuffs. Probably. 

No matter how he schools his face, August cannot hide his body’s response in the face of violence or pain; the crease of his hip is already shiny with precome when you fasten the collar around his thigh like a garter (and isn’t _that_ a thought), prongs pressing cruelly into tender flesh.

_Alright?_

_Pet._ Tight, focused. Grasping hard at control. _This is what you’re going to do._

Blindfold him, first of all, because maybe you can read him but he reads you too. And _make it a surprise, pet. Not a peep from you. When you’re ready, as often as you want, for as long as you want._

And he’s sure, isn’t he; his gorgeous thick cock is almost harder than you’ve ever seen it, twitching like a living thing and deeply, hungrily red. 

And you make him wait. 

And wait. 

Until the twist of his lips shifts from anticipation to irritation, until his cock is a shade softer and settles against his leg. He will have your _hide_ for this, but the moment he starts to pull against the cuffs, you let him have it. 

The effect is immediate; his hips jerk from the bed as every muscle tenses at once. And when you switch the collar off and he drops to the bed, he is panting. Not from pain, or at least not much of it: he’s had far worse than a little shock. But his cock is so hard, back to that angry red shade of need. Back to full attention, and he could come just like this, if only you’d close a hand around him. Just for a moment. 

But instead, you shock him again. 

And again.

And again, but he doesn’t beg off; he doesn’t beg at all, at least not with words. But his hips are lifting from the bed even without the tension of electric shock, and he’s more wet with precome than you’ve ever seen him. He arches toward where he must imagine your hand to be, seeking contact, never saying a word. 

_Hey._ The words come out low and rough, catching on the sight of him. _If you aren’t gonna ask. I wanna see your face when you come._ And with the blindfold gone from his eyes you see him, _really_ see him: the tension that digs his crows’ feet deeper into his face, the bow of his lips pinned into a taut line, the rapid flick of his gaze between his thigh and your face. He looks like—

_You look like if I touched you just once, you’d come._ And _oh,_ if looks could kill, but your hand is closing on his cock so delicately, and—

You were _right._


End file.
